"Fine," he said. "We'll finish these drinks, get cleaned up, and I'll meet
you here in the lobby at eight."
The Club Marfil was wood panelled, illuminated with soft indirect
lighting and furnished with comfortable leather chairs. There was just a hint of
the fragrance of lavender cologne and pipe tobacco in the air, and a classical
guitarist sat in one corner plucking a piece of music that I recognized as Bach.
Behind the long oak bar and on the surrounding walls were several original oil
paintings that looked to me like authentic Turners with stormy skies and
harbors, several harsh lighted summer beach scenes by the Spanish impressionist
Sorolla, and a couple of more modern things by Jean Miró. There were perhaps
eight or ten men, most of them in their late fifties or older, seated at the bar
and at the tables. No ladies were present.
We sat at the bar, and Andre introduced me to the barman,and said that I was
his guest. I ordered a whiskey with water,and Andre asked for a San Patricio
Sherry.
In the taxi coming from the hotel Andre had explained to me that the ladies
who served as "hostess, companions" in the club were selected by the management,
for their grace, charm, beauty and discretion since the membership included men
from some of the most distinguished families in not just Barcelona, but all of
Spain and Europe. Admission to the club was dependent upon a recommendation from
another member, a vote by the membership committee, and rather stiff dues. Andre
said that he had been recommended by an old friend of his who lived in France.
Most of the ladies, Andre said, had other jobs; they were school teachers,
nurses, secretaries, actresses or governesses, but not infrequently they left
their other employment and their positions in the Club Marfil to become
full time, exclusive mistresses to one of the gentlemen from the club.
Andre's lady friend was named Margarita, he told me, and in addition to her
duties at the club she was an actress for the Spanish State Television network.
In so far as Margarita knew, Andre was an industrialist from Paris, and for that
evening I would become an American business colleague on a visit to Spain from
the States.
We had been in the club for maybe ten minutes when a door at the back of the
room opened. An older, motherly looking, woman entered first. She was followed
by a dozen strikingly beautiful women, any one of whom could have graced the
centerfold of a men's magazine.
They all wore expensive looking, designer quality dresses, tasteful jewelry
and their hair looked as though they had just come from a beauty salon. There
was nothing about the women that would distinguish them from any of the many
beautiful Spanish women whom I had been introduced to or seen at diplomatic
cocktail parties and receptions in Madrid, except, perhaps, that these ladies
were more attractive.
As they filed in behind the older woman some of the girls, by prior
arrangement with the gentlemen, Andre told me, approached and joined different
men, while others took places at the tables alone. Margarita walked directly to
Andre with a radiant smile on her face while he beamed and stood up to greet her
by taking her hand in his to kiss it. Andre introduced me as his friend Pedro, a
business associate from New York.
The three of us exchanged superficial chatter and gossip for a few minutes,
then Andre and Margarita excused themselves to move to a table.
I ordered another whiskey and felt very self conscious and sleazy as I
looked around the room at the four or five women who were still alone. I was at
least twenty years younger than any of the other men in the place. My three
button Brooks Brother suit, and button down collar shirt obviously branded me as
an American. I hated myself for sitting there at the bar ogling these beautiful
women like some middle western Babbitt on a trip to Las Vegas. Even if my
Hemingway hero image of myself was made up fantasy, it was closer to who I was
than trying to present myself as some sort of middle class businessman. I liked
being a Foreign Service officer, and I found the idea of representing myself as
something else, especially a businessman, repulsive. I had an urge to leave, but
at the same time I felt compelled to stay since by this time my attention had
been taken by one of the women.
I smiled at her when she looked up from a book she was reading, and she
smiled back then turned her eyes back to the book. Perhaps it was because she
was reading a book, or maybe because she was not quite as perfect as the others
that I was attracted to her. She was just a little heavier and full busted than
most of the others who were fashion model slim. Her slightly frosted blond hair,
rather than being teased, hung loosely and naturally over her shoulders. The top
of her khaki colored raw silk shirtmaker dress was bloused over a silver and
turquoise belt, and with rolled up sleeves I had the impression that I was
looking at a California career woman, maybe a real estate woman from Newport
Beach or Palm Springs. I speculated that she was probably about thirty years
old.
I turned back to the bar, and watched her for several minutes in the mirror.
She was obviously honestly reading her book, and not just using it as a stage
prop. She looked up at me again and caught my eyes in the mirror. I screwed up
my courage, stuffed my pride, then picked up my drink and walked to her table.
"May I join you?" I asked, speaking Spanish.
She looked up from her book and smiled. "Please do," she replied in British
accented English.
"I guess my Spanish accent is not as good as I thought it was," I said and
sat down in the chair across the table from her. Rather than the expensive
jewelry that the others wore she had only a simple gold chain with a crucifix
hanging around her neck.
"Your accent is perfect," she replied in English. "I would say that you
learned your Spanish in Mexico, but I could tell that you were obviously an
American." She had a soft musical voice that was perfectly tuned with her
British accent.
"How could you tell?" I asked, more as a conversation ploy than a search for
information since I knew that I looked like a typical American.
"By your suit, your shirt and tie, your shoes," she shrugged her shoulders,
"I don't know. I just knew that you were an American."
I glanced at the book she had been reading. It was Axion by C.G. Jung, the
Swiss psychologist. "I see you`re interested in Jungian psychology," I said and
offered her a cigarette. She took one, and I lit it for her, then lit one for
myself.
"Yes, I'm taking courses in conjunction with my work."
"This work or your other work?" I asked and smiled.
She laughed. "Actually a knowledge of psychology is valuable in both of my
jobs, but in this case it's for my other job as you put it. I'm a nurse, and I
work with the mentally ill. And you?"
I didn't want to blow Andre's cover, or say anything that would discredit
him, but I did not want to continue the charade of being a businessman from the
States.
"Do you know Margarita, the lady who is with my friend?"
"Yes," she said, "I know her, and I've met Andre. He's from Paris."
"Um," I said. "Well if Margarita asks you who I am you tell her that I'm a
businessman from New York. That's what Andre told her, but just between you and
me, I'm a diplomat from Madrid. I work in the American Embassy."
"It sounds to me as though your friend Andre is de Rodriguez."
"De Rodriguez? I asked. "I don't think I know that expression."
"In the summertime all of the wives of the men who live in Madrid leave the
city for vacations, and the men are left alone. In Spanish we say that they are
de Rodriguez, since they all present themselves as Mr. Rodriguez, from some
other town."
"I see," I said and we exchanged smiles. "I won't comment on Andre since he
has his own motives for saying whatever he says, but I will tell you that my
name is really Pete Stuart, and I'm really from Madrid. Anyway I couldn't pass
myself off as Rodriguez. I'm too obviously an American."
She lauhed. "Thank you, Pete. I appreciate honesty in people. My name is
really Rosa Mercedes Serrano, and I'm really from Barcelona now. I was born and
raised in a small village though."
"Listen," I said. "Can we leave here? Maybe go for a walk, have a coffee or
a drink in a cafe and then go to dinner? I just arrived in Barcelona this
afternoon and I'd like to see a little bit of it."
"What ever you like," she replied. "Just let me get my purse."
Rosa Mercedes left, and I walked to the table where Andre was sitting with
Margarita. "I'll see you tomorrow in the hotel, Andre," I said. "Rosa Mercedes
and I are going for a walk, and maybe dinner."
"Fine, Pedro," he said with a conspiratorial nod.
"Ciao, Pedro," Margarita said and offered her hand. "He tenido mucho
gusto en conocerte."
"Igualmente," I replied and took her hand. For the first time since
being in Spain, I kissed a lady's hand and did not feel self conscious.
Rosa Mercedes returned with a large leather purse slung over her shoulder,
and slipped her arm under mine. "Vámanos?" she asked.
"Si, vámanos, I said. "Ciao." We waved to Andre and Margarita,
then turned and walked out of the club.
It was a balmy evening and we set off walking at a leisurely pace. Rosa,
with her right arm linked under mine, leaned into me, and with her left hand she
clung to the strap of her bag. For the next hour we wandered aimlessly and spoke
alternately in English and Spanish. I had never felt so at ease, so comfortable
and at one with any woman in my life. I had the feeling that she wanted nothing
from me, and that she made no demands. She was content to just be with me, to
listen if I felt like talking, and she knew that I would listen and wanted to
hear her if she wanted to talk. We passed the partially completed Gaudi Church
of the Sagrada Familia. She casually pointed it out to me.
"Gaudi was killed by a streetcar while the work was in progress, and for two
days he lay dead in the morgue before the coroner learned that the body belonged
to the famous architect," she said, then slipped back into the story of her
life.
Rosa Mercedes was totally free of any pretense, or expectations and devoid
of any self-pity, anger or guile. She laughed at herself and at me. Without
being frivolous or reckless, Rosa Mercedes lived completely in the now with an
enormous measure of acceptance of herself and other people. She radiated a quiet
assurance that she knew her place in the universe, and that everything in the
world was just exactly as it was supposed to be, and exactly as God had planned
it. I admired and envied her.
Born in a small village, her pueblo, as she put it, of a God fearing
peasant family she became pregnant when she was 16 years old. Her father had
been killed in the civil war, and Rosa realized that one more mouth to feed and
one more mind to educate was beyond what her mother could provide. Rosa left the
village for Barcelona to educate herself and her daughter. The girl, now 14
lived with her, went to school and would, Rosa Mercedes hoped, not make the same
mistake.
"Life is hard in Spain, and for a single woman with a child it is even
harder, but we get by very well," she said as a simple statement of fact.
Rosa Mercedes had educated herself and raised her child by doing every
possible kind of work, but all of the time taking courses, and studying. For the
past five years she had been the equivalent of a Registered Nurse, and she hoped
to get a degree in psychology. Beyond that she did not think. "Que será,
será," she said. "The way will be me made known to me."
I told her a little bit about myself. I mentioned growing up in California,
having been in the American Air Force, and about studying in Mexico and my
Hemingway hero fantasies, as well as how much I loved Spain and how thrilled I
had been to get the assignment. I told her that I was married, and showed her
pictures of my children. She thought the children were beautiful, and had no
reaction, that I noticed, to my being married. We were very much together in the
moment, connected to one another, and yet we both knew that we probably would
never see one another again. (In the latter assumption I was wrong as you will
see later.)
As it got to be near ten o'clock, the hour when Spanish restaurants open for
dinner, I asked Rosa if she was getting hungry.
"Yes, I am," she said. "How about you?"
"I could eat something," I replied.
"Good," she said. "How would you like to go to a very typical out of the way
place? - down in the Barrio Chino. It's famous for sea food, snails, and
lobster."
"Sounds great," I replied. "What's the name of this place?"
"El Caracol," she replied. "We have to take a taxi. It's too far to
walk."
I hailed a cab, and we rode for about twenty minutes down the Ramblas into
the narrow streets of the Barrio Chino, the old section of Barcelona
behind the waterfront and the docks.
The taxi turned down an unlighted, narrow cobbled street, lined on either
side by big maritime warehouses, then stopped in front of a small, low building
pushed between two high warehouses. It was dark save for the glow of a tiny red
neon sign with the words El Caracol in script letters.
We entered and inside was one large noisy room filled with people engaged in
animated conversation. The air was pungent with the scent of garlic, olive oil
and the smell of meat and fish cooking over charcoal. In the center was an
enormous charcoal brazier some six feet square over which chefs with long, high
white hats were broiling fresh lobster, steaks, shrimp and fish. We sat down at
a table in a corner, and a waiter placed a porrón of red wine and a
basket filled with course, peasant's bread on the table.
"The lobster is very good here," she said. "Do you like lobster?"
"I love it," I replied. "What are you going to have?"
"I'm going to have lobster, but first I want a plate of caracoles,
the specialty of the house. Do you like snails?" she asked.
"I've never eaten snails," I admitted. "But I'll try them."
"Good, you're adventurous. Most Americans are afraid of snails," she
laughed.
"Have you known many Americans?"
"A few," she said. "Mostly officers off the navy ships that come into
Barcelona."
Rosa picked up the porrón and filled our glasses with wine, then held
the porrón out, at arm's length, and let a stream of wine flow out of the
small hole at the end of the long tapered spout into her mouth. She cut it off
smartly without spilling a drop. "Do you know how to drink from a porrón
she asked and handed it to me.
"Yes," I replied and took it from her. Holding it out I tipped it to let a
stream of wine flow into my mouth.
"Very good," she said and applauded. "Where did you learn that?" she asked
with laughter. "Most Americans don't know how to do it."
"I learned it when I was in school in Mexico. I used to hang out in a
Spanish cafe called La Gran Tasca in Mexico City with all of the refugees from
the Spanish civil war." I leaned over the table and whispered to her. "They used
to joke in Mexico that the Spaniards were all going to loose their forefingers."
"Why?" she whispered.
"Because they always pounded their forefingers on the tables and
said'este año se muere Franco y regresarámos a España,'" I replied with a
smile.
She laughed. "I don't understand politics, and I don't want to. Politics are
too complicated for me, but that's a funny story. The old men do it here, too.
Like this," she said and pounded her forefinger on the table. Leaning close to
me she whispered, "this year Franco dies."
The waiter served the snails. Using a small fork I pulled one out of the
shell. It tasted mostly of garlic and olive oil, but I liked it. We then ate our
lobsters served with a Spanish version of French fried potatoes and a crisp
green salad from a single bowl placed on the table between us out of which we
both ate.
When we had finished eating we left the restaurant and returned to Las
Ramblas, a broad tree shaded street that is the gathering place for
Barcelonans. Stopping in a cafe we ordered Carlos Primero brandy and espresso
coffee.
"I suppose you wanted something besides dinner and companionship this
evening," she said after the waiter had served our coffee and cognac.
"That's up to you, Rosa Mercedes," I said.
"No, it's up to you." She sipped her brandy and looked coquettishly over the
edge of the glass. "Do you have a cigarette?"
I pulled a pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket, offered one to her, took
one for myself, then lighted her's. I looked into her eyes and she was very
appealing.
"Yes, I would like something more than dinner and companionship. What do you
suggest? Can we go to my hotel?"
"No," she replied, and laughed at my innocence. "They won't let us in the
hotel. Don't forget, this is Spain." She looked at me for several minutes as
though she were studying me, trying to size me up. "Normally, I take my
gentlemen friends to a place called the Casablanca, it's a hotel of sorts
where they don't ask questions. That's where Andre and Margarita will go, but I
don't think I want to take you there."
"Why not?" I asked and lit my own cigarette.
She again looked at me, and was silent. She smiled. "I think you know that I
generally get paid for anything beyond dinner and companionship." "Yes," I
replied. "I know that."
"Well, I don't want you to pay me anything. I want to take you to my
apartment - as my friend."
I was stunned, and I didn't know what to say. After a long silence I
stammered, "I would be honored."
"Good," she said. "We have to go in a taxi. I live too far from here to
walk.
We finished our brandy and coffee then pushed back from the table and hailed
a passing taxi. Rosa gave her address to the driver. "I hope you won't be
disappointed," she said and took my hand. "It's just a furnished apartment, and
very humble."
It was still early by Spanish standards and the streets were crowded with
people out walking in the balmy evening air.
The driver turned on to a narrow cobbled street that wound down the side of
a steep slope of Montserat into an old working class section of the City.
"This is it," she said. "That iron gate on the left."
The driver pulled the car up in front of an old dilapidated apartment
building. I paid him and we climbed out. A sereno, a night watchman,
rushed to open the door to Rosa's building.
Inside the apartment my nostrils were filled with the smell of turpentine
and linseed oil as we walked toward a long table cluttered with paints, brushes
and an assortment of bottles. On an easel standing in front of a window was a
partially completed canvas, and I stood in front of it for several minutes
studying the brush strokes and textures. It was an impressionist beach theme
done in soft, muted colors. "Are you a painter, too?" I asked.
"No," she replied. "It belongs to my daughter."
"She's good," I said and took Rosa in my arms. She ran her fingers through
my hair, and rubbed the side of my face. I did not quite know what to say to
her, and she seemed a little ill at ease. I sensed that she was not accustomed
to entertaining her gentlemen friends in her own home.
"Let's slip in the bedroom, so you can see my daughter," she said and took
me by the hand.
Quietly we walked down a hall to a doorway, and Rosa carefully opened the
door to a small bedroom. In the bed, sound asleep, and hugging a teddy bear, was
a miniature of Rosa Mercedes with long hair, and a clear olive complexion.
"Does she have blue eyes?" I whispered.
Rosa Mercedes looked first at the child, and then at me. She smiled at both
of us and nodded her head.
Taking me by the hand she tugged gently and I followed her to another
bedroom. She unbuttoned her dress, then reaching behind her she unloosed the
strap of her brassiere, slipped out of and let it drop to the floor.
"Why don't we take a shower together," she whispered and let her arms hang
loose beside her. "Then it will be a perfect ending to a perfect evening."
I walked to stand in front of her. "It would be a perfect ending to a
perfect evening," I said and pulled her dress back up to cover her shoulders.
"Maybe too perfect if that's possible." I buttoned her dress. "Can something be
too perfect?"
"I don't know," she said then turned to walk out of the bedroom back to the
entry hall.
I followed behind her. She stopped and turned to face me. "Rosa Mercedes, I
could easily fall in love with you," I said. "Maybe I already have. You have
cast a spell over me."
She smiled. "Love," she said. "We have bewitched and enchanted each other.
What is love?"
"Love is giving and receiving - sharing. Just what we did tonight. Will I
ever see you again?" I asked.
She shrugged and smiled. "Who knows? You know where to find me."
"In the Club Marfil?"
"Yes, but here's my telephone number in case you don't want to go there."
She pressed a folded paper into my shirt pocket
I pushed five one thousand peseta notes into the pocket of her dress then
kissed her again.
"Thank you for letting me into your life for a few hours. Goodbye," I said
and smiled at her.
"Goodbye," she said.
I went down the stairs where on the street I hailed a taxi to return to the
Avenida Palace Hotel.
Andre and I met for breakfast, then toured a few feeding stations for the
poor, one was located not far from Rosa's apartment. It was obvious that a lot
of stage managing went into planning for the visit. The priests in charge of the
distribution had been expecting us, and I decided that if I wanted to see the
way things really worked, I would have to go without Andre, with no advance
notice. We then went to get my car out of customs.
"Did you enjoy the Club Marfil last night?" Andre asked as the
Bishop's black Mercedes rolled to a stop in front of the customs shed.
"Yes," I replied. "Very much." "Good, I'll see you back in Madrid," Andre
said and smiled. I climbed out of the Mercedes and walked to my car. I was
relieved to see that it had arrived unscratched. Slipping into the seat behind
the wheel, I waved to Andre. The next morning I left Barcelona to drive back to
Madrid alone.
Gene McCoy © July 1998
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